


as long as i got my suit and tie

by ceserabeau



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Clothing Kink, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-03-07
Packaged: 2018-03-11 17:04:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3331757
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceserabeau/pseuds/ceserabeau
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re distracting me,” Eames tells him. He takes a few cautious steps towards Arthur, eyes still on the horrendous shirt. “Really, darling, where on earth did you find it? It’s a monstrosity.” </p><p>Or, the one where Arthur is a sloppy dresser and Eames hates it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on [this post](http://sibilantly.tumblr.com/post/62667634631/you-know-i-gotta-say-when-i-first-started%20). So just imagine that [this](http://www.blogcdn.com/blog.moviefone.com/media/2011/09/5050-1317403383.jpg) [is](http://photos.posh24.com/p/1681659/z/fun_pics/joseph_gordon_levitt_glasses_p.jpg) [Arthur](http://assets-s3.usmagazine.com/uploads/assets/photo_galleries/hot_pics_galleries/5981-joseph-in-transit/1311714642_joseph-gordon-levitt-lg.jpg), not JGL – Arthur, every day, no suits in sight. Title from Justin Timberlake's _Suit & Tie_

Here’s the thing about Arthur.

He’s one of the smartest men Eames has ever met. His talent lies in his ability to know everything about everyone and make it look as easy as breathing. He keeps up with Eames’ banter and flirting without blinking, tongue as sharp as his mind, and there has yet to be a situation where Eames has seen his flustered.

But the thing about Arthur, about brilliant, wonderful Arthur, is that he has apparently never heard of dressing professionally.

“Tell me, darling,” Eames says to him one morning halfway through the Fisher job, “Wherever did you get that shirt?”

It’s a t-shirt, a white t-shirt with a very big, very ugly logo on it. Today Arthur has paired it with jeans that more holes than fabric, and a pair of sneakers that may have once been white. The baseball cap that he was wearing on his head when he arrived this morning is cap sitting on the desk, taunting Eames silently.

“Don’t you have something to be working on?” Arthur says, glancing at Eames out of the corner of his eye.

“You’re distracting me,” Eames tells him. He takes a few cautious steps towards Arthur, eyes still on the horrendous shirt. “Really, Arthur, where on earth did you find it? It’s a monstrosity.”

Arthur rolls his eyes, turning slightly so he can look Eames up and down scathingly. “I could say the same thing about yours.”

Eames’ shirt is salmon pink paisley, silk, handcrafted by the finest tailors Mombasa has to offer. It is a work of art. Arthur though, Arthur is looking at it like it’s the most offensive thing he’s ever seen. Eames perches on the edge of Arthur’s desk so that he can see it better.

“Let me take you shopping,” he begs. “Please, love, it’ll be wonderful. I’ll buy you a whole new wardrobe. Or you can buy it for yourself – I know you get paid better than I do for these things.”

Arthur finally turns and it puts him right up against Eames’ side, a long line of heat and muscle. Eames likes him like this, close enough to touch, but he’d like it more if Arthur was naked – or at least better dressed.

“I’d rather put my money towards other things,” Arthur tells him coolly.

Eames snorts. “Like what?” There’s nothing better to spend money on than clothes, as far as he’s concerned.

Arthur just raises one careful eyebrow. “Art,” he says vaguely. “Real estate. Not all of us like living in shitholes like you.”

Eames schools his face into something surprised, something offended. “My home is wonderful,” he says haughtily and this time it’s Arthur who snorts.

“I’m sure the cockroaches you share it with agree,” he says.

He laughs when Eames frowns at him, mouth curved upward into a shark-like grin. His glasses are sliding down his nose, and Eames wonders not for the first time how he can look so smart but so dumb at the same time.

There’s a noise across the room: Cobb dropping files in what he probably thinks is an inconspicuous way. Behind him, Ariadne is giggling behind her hand, and when Eames shoots her an unimpressed look she winks dramatically at him.

When he turns back, Arthur’s face is blank but his eyes are sharp and amused. “Go do you work, Mr. Eames,” he says, and slowly starts to pull away.

Eames’ hand shoots out of its own accord, wrapping tight around Arthur’s wrist, just below where that awful shirt has been rolled up. Arthur pauses, body gone tight and tense as Eames leans in to put his mouth to the soft skin of Arthur’s ear.

“You’d look fantastic in a suit, darling,” he whispers, letting his breath tickle Arthur’s hair; “Just give it a chance.”

Cobb’s footsteps sound, and he clears his throat awkwardly from a few feet away. “Shall we get back to work?” he asks pointedly.

From this proximity, Eames gets to watch the tips of Arthur’s ears turn bright pink.

-

The dream is Arthur’s making: skyscrapers stretching endlessly upwards until they merge into the clouds, wide streets that disappear into the distance with no sign of stopping. His subconscious is full of everyday people doing everyday things, buying groceries, parking cars, chatting on their way to work.

Arthur himself blends in amongst them. It takes Eames a long moment to pick him out of the crowd: he finds him sitting on a bench, a copy of _Le Monde_ open in his hands. Somewhere along the line he’s picked up a windbreaker, bright green and hideous.

“Are you pretending to be French?” Eames asks after he takes the seat next to him. “If you are, darling, you’re not being particularly convincing. Not dressed like that.”

Arthur casually turns the page of his paper. To a bystander it would look like he hasn’t heard, but Eames has known him for years now and he can easily pick out the flaring of Arthur’s nostrils, the disgruntled flutter of his eyelids.

“Arthur,” Eames sing-songs, turning into him, pressing himself right up against Arthur’s side. “You can’t ignore me forever.”

“Shouldn’t you be practising your forge?” Arthur asks nonchalantly, turning another page.

Eames smiles, and he stretches his arm out along the back of the bench, fingers brushing the line of Arthur’s neck, the curve of his shoulder. Arthur tries to hold back his shiver, but this close it’s unmissable.

“No need,” Eames tells him. “Browning’s hardly difficult. Egotistical, power-hungry – your average lawyer.”

Arthur’s eyebrow twitches; Eames can’t tell if he’s amused or unimpressed. “So if you’re not here to practise,” he says casually, still not looking up, “What’s your pretence for being in my dream?”

“You invited me?” At Arthur’s eye roll, Eames just grins. “You know me, love. I’d never pass up the opportunity to explore your subconscious.”

Arthur turns to fix him with a stern glare. “Then go explore,” he says.

Eames scoots a little closer. “Why not come with me?” he asks, and his breath rustles Arthur’s hair. “You can show me all your best hiding spots?”

Arthur makes an unimpressed noise. “I’m comfortable,” he just says, casually turning the page.

Eames considers him for a moment: the strong curve of Arthur’s neck, the broad sweep of his shoulders, the long lines of his legs. He would so good in a suit: something dark grey and well-fitted, with a matching waistcoat, a pinstripe shirt, a red tie, all that dark hair slicked back against his head. Eames can see it in his mind’s eye, so tangible, so real. If he just focuses hard enough –

The newspaper in Arthur’s hands goes flying to the ground as he jerks violently, suddenly pushing himself to his feet. Eames stares up at him, surprised. The awful shirt and jeans are gone: instead Arthur’s body is wrapped in the perfectly tailored suit from Eames’ daydream.

“Oh, _Arthur_ ,” he purrs.

Arthur spins on the heel of his shiny shoes to glare angrily. “What the fuck, Eames,” he growls. “I’m going to kill you. How the hell did you even do this?”

Eames doesn’t answer, too busy staring at him, entirely distracted. Arthur really does look spectacular like this, the suit fitting him like a second skin. The knot of the tie tight against his throat, the curve of his waist beneath his waistcoat, the shape of his arse beneath expensive fabric: they all conspire to make Eames’ mouth dry as a bone.

“ _Eames_.”  Arthur’s finger jab hard into his chest, and Eames blinks up at him. “How did you do it?”

“Willpower,” Eames says vaguely, appreciating the way the crisp cuffs of the shirt frame Arthur’s delicate wrists. “You know, darling, I knew you’d look good. I didn’t know you’d look _ravishing_.”

Arthur’s jaw clenches. “Are you enjoying yourself?” he asks.

Eames grins sharply: “Oh, very much.”

He drags his eyes slowly up Arthur’s body, lingering on the stretch of fabric across his crotch. When he reaches Arthur’s face, he’s surprised to find it flushed, a faint tint of red spreading across Arthur’s cheeks.

Arthur glares. “Change it back,” he orders, and his voice is startlingly high-pitched. “Right now.”

“Sorry, love,” Eames says with a shrug. “I don’t know how to do that.”

“Well, you better figure it out,” Arthur says, and he points down the street, “Or you’re going to have to deal with more than just me.”

Eames follows the line of his finger and surprise, surprise, every projection on the street is staring right at them – or rather, at Eames. All of them are watching his with dark, angry eyes, their faces tight and tense.

“Think you can calm down a bit, love?” Eames asks, suddenly nervous. He’s been in Arthur’s subconscious before, but he’s never felt quite so threatened. “I’d rather not get torn to pieces, if it’s alright with you.”

Arthur hums, eyes flicking between the projections and Eames. “Bit late for that,” he tells him, just as the projections begin to move, heading straight for them.

“Well, fuck,” Eames says, scrambling off the bench, backing away slowly. “Come on, love, you know it was a joke. I just wanted to see how you’d look.”

Arthur’s face does something funny: half uncertain, half interested. “And was it worth it?” he asks.

The first of the projections are almost at them now, their faces twisting into snarls. Eames manages to shoot one of them in the head, but it only riles the others up and they swarm him in seconds, hands all over him, on his shoulders, round his throat, tugging and tearing, pulling him down into the dirt.

“Worth every second,” Eames chokes out, and everything goes dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more, and it will end in porn.


	2. Chapter 2

The day Maurice Fischer dies, Eames doesn’t see the rest of team until they’re in departures, getting ready to board.

The terminal is teeming, people jostling him violently in their push towards the gate, and it’s only when the crowd parts that Eames can see his people: Cobb, a decidedly nervous look on his face; Ariadne and Yusuf, both fiddling awkwardly with passports and boarding passes; Saito lingering nearby, watching, waiting.

And then there’s Arthur, wonderful Arthur, so well-dressed Eames barely recognises him. He’s in that same grey suit, that same pinstripe shirt, that same red tie, hair slicked back the way Eames pictured it. But this, this is so much better than he ever dreamt it could be.

Eames steps up behind him in line, pressing closer than is entirely appropriate so he can brush his fingers against the swell of Arthur’s backside, the dip of his spine. Arthur flinches beneath his touch, but for once he doesn’t pull away.

“Is this for me?” Eames asks quietly. This close he can smell Arthur’s cologne, something expensive, intriguing.

Arthur takes a deep, careful breath, turning his head so that Eames can see his profile. “It’s first class,” he murmurs. “I was hardly going to come underdressed.”

“Why not? You do every day at work.” When Arthur tenses, Eames just presses his hand more firmly into Arthur’s back. “Easy, love, I didn’t mean to insult. Just saying I prefer you like this.”

Arthur’s mouth curves upwards. “I thought you might,” he says, and it would be smug if it wasn’t for the way he sways back into the steady pressure of Eames’ hand.

“You were right,” Eames tells him, “As always. What a shame we have to get on a flight, though. The things I’d like to do to you in that suit. You are so very tempting, darling.”

Arthur shivers, almost unnoticeable if it weren’t for the way Eames is pressed in close. “Careful, Mr. Eames,” he says quietly, “Or Fischer will get suspicious.”

Eames glances over at where Fischer is sitting by the window, staring vacantly out at the planes moving past. “I think he’s a little preoccupied at the moment,” he says, inching closer still until he’s almost pressed up against Arthur’s back. “As am I. What would you say if I said we should forget the job?”

Arthur huffs out a laugh. “I’d say you’re an idiot. Unless you’re really not interested in inception – or the payday that comes with it.”

Eames smiles. “Fine,” he concedes. “But _after_ , darling. When this is over, I’m going to take that suit off you piece by piece, and then I’m going to get you nice and loose, and then I’m going to fuck you until you forget all about those ugly rags you wear.”

Arthur gives a full body shudder, the kind Eames associates with late nights and the hot press of skin against skin, and his head tilts back almost imperceptibly, exposing the lone line of his throat, all that pale skin just begging to be marked.

“Is that a promise, Mr. Eames?” he asks, and his voice wavers beautifully.

Eames just inches closer, close enough that Arthur can feel the bulge of his half-hard dick against his ass. “Is that answer enough for you?”

Arthur’s eyelashes flutter delicately and his breath whistles out sharply between his teeth. For a second Eames thinks Arthur might jump him right then and there, but slowly, carefully he relaxes, shoulders drooping until all the tension had bled from him.

He steps back, bumping into Eames clumsily, deliberately. “So sorry,” he says, loud enough for the people around them to hear, but the look he gives Eames is dark and sharp.

“Not at all,” Eames replies without thinking, and keeps his hands to himself as Arthur steps away to present his passport and ticket to the stewardess.

Eames follows him down the tunnel, into the stale air of the plane. This part is easy, all the parts they’re practised for weeks on end in a cold Parisian warehouse finally falling into place as Eames steals a wallet, Cobb spikes a drink, and Fischer’s head slumps ungracefully to his chest.

As Eames is slipping the needle of the PASIV into his wrist, he glances over to see the way Arthur is rolling his sleeve up, cufflinks glinting as he exposes the pale skin of his wrist. Oh, the things Eames wants to do to him, to those wrists, those long dexterous fingers, that sinuous body. He’s going to wreck the both of them.

Across the aisle Arthur glances up, and winks.  

-

Eames knows he shouldn’t be surprised when things get fucked up within minutes, but apparently having Arthur around to counterbalance Cobb has somehow made him forget just how deranged the man can be.

He feels an anger rise sharply at the sight of Saito laid out on the ground, blood pooling in the sharp creases of his white shirt, and he’s gearing up to tear Cobb a new one when Arthur lays a heavy hand on his arm.

“Leave it,” he snaps, and pulls Eames roughly away.

Eames rounds on him when they’re out of sight of Cobb and the others, yanking his arm from Arthur’s grip. “He’s going to get us all killed,” he growls. “We’re all going to end up in fucking limbo.”

Arthur just shakes his head. “I should’ve double-checked for militarization,” he says, scrubbing a hand over his face. “This is on me.”

“Oh, stop that.” Eames reaches out to pull Arthur’s hand away from his face. When Arthur tries to jerk away, he just holds him tight, fingers dipping under the cuff of his jacket. “You did your job, Arthur, and you did it well. It’s not your fault that Fischer had it done on the quiet.”

Arthur makes a miserable sound, and Eames knows he blames himself for not digging deep enough, for not driving fast enough, for not having a solution for this spectacular fuck-up. In that moment, Eames hates Cobb more than ever for making Arthur think that he’s not doing enough.

So Eames reels him in, pulls Arthur tight against him. He cups the back of Arthur’s neck gently, fingers slipping beneath the soft fabric of Arthur’s shirt.

“This isn’t on you,” he says, leaning his forehead against Arthur’s. “This is his fucking mess and for once he’s going to have to clean it up himself.”

Arthur exhales shakily, breath puffing against Eames’s chin. “I don’t want to end up in limbo,” he admits quietly.

“Don’t you worry, darling,” Eames says; “If you end up down there I’ll come after you. I’ve finally got you to give me the time of day – in a suit no less. You really think I’m going to let that opportunity go to waste?”

It shakes a laugh from Arthur, something sweet and startled. “I suppose not,” he says, and pulls back enough that Eames can see the smile starting to bloom. “You go on about it enough.”

Eames thinks about leaning in, finally pressing his mouth to Arthur’s, but in the other room Cobb’s voice sounds, too loud as he says something sharp and harsh to Ariadne. He takes a deep breath and steps back, watching the way Arthur blinks slowly in the low light.

“We can do this,” he says, determined. “We’re going to make the idea stick and then we’re going to go back topside and fuck like rabbits, so help me God.”

Arthur’s answering smile is bright. “I’m going to hold you to that,” he says. Carefully he disentangles himself from Eames and steps back. “We’d better go back before Cobb gets someone else shot.”

“At this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if someone shot him first.”

Arthur laughs, but the humour is gone from his face. “At this rate,” he says, “I might do it myself.”

He starts to leave but his face is so drawn again that Eames slots a hand around his wrist again, tries desperately to think of something to bring the smile back. Eventually he settles on dragging his eyes up Arthur, from the scuffed tips of his work boots, up the long line of his legs, to the plaid shirt and the battered leather of his jacket.

 “You look good like this, by the way,” he says, sliding into Arthur’s personal space again. “A perfect distraction if I do say so myself.”

Arthur rolls his eyes. “If it’s going to distract you, I can always change.”

“Darling,” Eames says with a laugh, “You always distract me,” and he darts in to press a kiss to the corner of Arthur’s smiling mouth before he goes.

-

When Eames opens his eyes to a bland hotel interior and Fischer’s blank stare, he knows instantly that the trap’s been set.

He cuts out quickly, leaving their poor mark to Cobb and his schemes. In the lobby he spots Arthur and Ariadne, heads tilted together. He catches Ariadne’s eye and winks, but it’s mostly for show: Arthur’s back in that suit again, all sharp lines and dangerous grace as he rises to follow Cobb and Fischer to the bathroom, and his mouth is dry as a bone.

Saito catches him in the elevator and Eames holds his forge as long as he can. Its one thing to feel the wetness seeping through his panties at the thought of Arthur and all the things they’re going to get up to; it’s another to let Saito see the way his dick would be tenting the fabric of his pants. But eventually Saito slips out and Eames lets his head thunk back against the wall, forge slipping away as he brings his hand up to rub at himself.

It would be so easy to get himself off here to the thought of Arthur: with his mouth on Eames’ skin, on his knees before him, pressed up against the elevator wall with Eames buried deep inside him. He thinks about it, hand moving slowly back and forth over the hard ridge of his cock, before the ding of the elevator brings him back to the moment.

“Fuck,” he says succinctly, and goes to find a bathroom to tidy himself up in.

Later, n the room, as they lay out Fischer and Browning, Arthur puts a hand on his wrist where it peeks out from his cuffs. “Okay?” he murmurs, eyes on the flush that still stains Eames’ cheeks.

“Never better.” When Arthur frowns, Eames sighs. “I’ll just be glad when this is done.”

 _So I can take you to bed_ , he doesn’t add.

Arthur’s smile is wry. “You and me both,” he says, and let’s Eames go to set up the PASIV.

It’s only as Eames is lying down and unbuttoning his cuff that Arthur comes back, crouching down next to him with a light in his eyes like he’s figured out exactly what Eames was up to.

“Need some help?” he murmurs, reaching out for him.

Eames can’t help the way his eyes flick from Arthur’s clever fingers to the line of his throat to the curve of his mouth. “Security’s gonna run you down hard,” he says quietly.

Arthur looks surprised at the low tone, the thread of fear that Eames can’t quite keep from his voice. He covers it well, mouth already curving into a small smile.

“And I will lead them on a merry chase,” he says flippantly, but his fingers squeeze reassuringly around Eames’ wrist nonetheless. 

It’s easy for Eames to grin back. “Just be back before the kick,” he says, just to hear Arthur snort.

He lets his hand fall against the inside of Arthur’s leg, feeling the muscle there tighten slightly beneath his fingers. It would be so easy to move them higher, to brush at the bulge of Arthur’s cock, but Arthur already has the needle in his wrist, is reaching for the PASIV.   

“Go to sleep, Mr. Eames,” he says, and fades away as the drugs kick in.


End file.
